The Real You
by illocutionary
Summary: They don't fit together perfectly. And they don't need to be. Light Fight Club spoilers.


**AN:** I've tried to keep the gigantic spoilers of Fight Club out, but please be cautioned if you don't want to be spoiled- there are pretty significant references within.

**The Real You**

He's feeling pretty damn proud of himself.

Kurt strides in, wearing an old Cincinnati Reds jersey his father had up in the attic, and had trimmed and sewn to fit his slim frame.

He sat down to find both David and Blaine donning Giants wear and staring at him—and not in the good, "oh, Kurt, incredibly stylish as always" way.

"What?"

"We're watching the Superbowl, Hummel…"

"Which means it's football…" Blaine explained patiently…

"Not baseball…"

"Besides, they haven't won in the last…"

"I know that!" Kurt snaps to save face, grabbing the bowl of pretzels and curls himself in the recliner, crunching on the pretzel sticks angrily.

"I know you two are still laughing at me," Kurt warns, and the two lock eyes and exchanged amused grins before settling into the game.

It's second quarter, and Kurt's already asleep. He still has a death grip on the pretzel bowl, for whatever reason.

It took several months before Kurt finally reintroduced Dave to Blaine. After going through countless heart crosses that he wouldn't maul Blaine on the spot, Dave started to resent going to meet some dude that Kurt can't get over. Strangely enough, Blaine was rather taken with him, smiling too much and talking to him despite only getting grunts in reply. It flickered in Dave's mind that Blaine was probably crazy, but he doesn't dare to voice it out, not when Kurt keeps miming slitting his throat behind Blaine's back.. Whatever.

Fast forward another few months, and Dave can safely say that Blaine is certifiably crazy. Dave would probably have to punch in the symptoms on WebMD to see if the psychology guys made up a name for it, but he's pretty sure Blaine is his own little crazy. While David did like holding a sports conversation with someone that didn't shove 'fag' in every other sentence, Blaine's fixation on his theories of who's gay or not, even while watching games was getting tedious, uncomfortable even.

That, and he smiles too much, laughs too much, even when there's nothing remotely funny going on.

Blaine tilts his sprite can towards the linebacker. "Number 76. I think he's gay."

Dave snorts. Not even 16 minutes in, and Blaine's picked his 10th player in the closet. The constant cut shots barely gave Dave time to scope out which player Blaine was talking about, but he was hardly trying in the first place, more intent on concentrating on the game. Dave's more or less internally accepted his sexuality, but having Blaine sitting next to him commenting so lightly about it was pretty unsettling.

He still hasn't forgotten about the staircase incident.

Dave shifts, sinking lower into the cushions, grimacing at the players on the screen, masked by their headgears and uniforms. How the fuck could Blaine even tell? Was he missing out on some secret gay signal?

"Hey, dude."

"Hmm?"

He waves a cheese-powdered hand, trying to sound nonchalant. "You know, you don't have to try and out every guy in the NFL."

Blaine laughs, and shrugs it off with another sip from his sprite can. "They're not in a hurry to do it themselves," he mentions lightly, and Dave grits his teeth, feeling his fingers twitching for something to throw at Blaine's face. He settles for a pillow rather than a coke, deciding that he didn't want to pay for a couch that's probably worth more than him and his entire familly. Blaine laughs, surprised, before launching it back. Dave doesn't flinch when it bounces off his head, and doesn't bother to pick it up. Sensing the shift in mood, Blaine settles back in without a word, watching as the players line back up again.

"Do you still like Kurt?"

Silence. Dave stops in mid chew and stares over at Blaine, who's still staring at the TV in turn, the glare off of the screen flashing blue across his passive face.

"What?"

Blaine glances over at Dave, before flickering over to Kurt's sleeping form, assuming that's where  
Dave's attention was on. "It's alright if you still do- I personally think you should go for it."

"Wait, no—" Did he? Last year, anyone could've pegged him for being utterly smitten, but after months and months of hanging out with Hummel, he's more interested in keeping the slowly stabilizing friendship than ruining it with advances. Regardless- "that's not the point." Dave suddenly feels stupid in his well-loved and worn Giants sweatshirt, scuffed jeans, and his orange fingers from the Doritos. "I meant—where did that come from?"

"Nowhere." And there it is again, that almost condescending, yet not really, but still really messed up grin lights up Blaine's face and he snaps his fingers in that Victorian European Master kind of way (Dave really needs to stop coming over accidentally on Colin Firth-oogling movie nights) as he puts down his lemon-lime soda. "I need a Bud, hit me."

Dave obliges with a fist to his shoulder.

The rest of the night passes uneventfully, including the game. Blaine may or may not have started the whole disconcerting staring at Dave somewhere during the half-time show, but they joke and elbow each other as they throw popcorn at Kurt's head when the commercials started up.

"Next tuesday, my place, at 7. Sound good?"

Dave's eyes narrowed. Wasn't that one of his rehearsal days? Nevertheless, he flicks through his mental calender and finding nothing on that particular night, nods.

Blaine brings out what Dave's calling the shark grin, all teeth and no mercy, and waves, striding down the porch, hands in pockets and whistling.

It's been less than fifteen seconds, and he's already starting to regret it.

He regrets it even more on that particular tuesday when he steps in the school and suddenly realizes that it's the fourteenth. Never has he been so terrified of roses and pink hearts. He charges down the hallway to Kurt's locker and gasps and heaves, while Kurt raises an eyebrow, somehow managing to look down at Dave even when he's at least five inches shorter.

"Do...you...have any plans for tonight?"

"As a matter of fact, I do," Kurt sniffs, "I'm prepared to celebrate this nauseous holiday with Mercedes and gorge on dark chocolate until I enter into a coma or puke. Either way, it'll be utterly _fantastic_." And with that, Kurt wheels around sharply and heads towards Trigonometry, nose in the air.

Dave can't seem to remember how to breathe. If Blaine didn't invite Kurt, then that means there'll only be two out of the three gay kids attending the weekly homo party, and- well, Dave doesn't like the implications of that.

He whips out his phone, sorely tempted to call Blaine for some answers, but try as he might, he can't seem to make himself press the little green button. Frustrated, he walks towards class trying to convey his 'concerns' and 'questions' into something less anxious than "WTF IS GOING ON WTF WTF WTF."

Screw it, he'll do it later.

He still hasn't called him.

He's actually right in front of Blaine's monstrous house, a few feet from the front door, and still going through the pros and cons of going in.

"You coming in anytime soon?"

Dave surges forward, and holds out the root beer and actual beer he brought. Blaine's face lights up and ushers him into the house. They both make their way up to Blaine's room, and sink down into the sofa facing the gigantic television. Dave's palms are sweaty and he hasn't said a single word. He's hyperventilating over if Blaine would realize- normally he would've entered with at least five insults aimed at Blaine's hair, teeth, or laugh, but for tonight, none of them surfaced. He tries to open his mouth to say something, but the worry courses through him and the vicious cycle keeps repeating over and over.

"Fight Club?"

"YES!" Dave says a bit too loudly, and Blaine laughs, walking over towards the dvd player and popping it in. "Yeah, ok, it's been awhile since I've had my Brad Pitt fix."

They settle in, and while both of them know the lines word for word, it's the one movie that Kurt absolutely refuses to see with them, no matter how they plead with him.

It...was nice. Nice that Blaine wanted to see it. With him. Yeah.

"Here." Blaine shoves a root beer into Dave's hand while he snapped the cap off of the Bud light and took a swig. Dave rolls his eyes, and takes the bottle from him and takes a sip before handing it back.

They continue this in relative silence, besides shouting out some memorable lines, all at the same exact time.

Yeah, this was really nice.

He's not sure when Blaine actually did it, but all of a sudden, Dave realizes that Blaine is leaning his head onto Dave's shoulder and sitting knee to shoulder attached to him. He's not really sure why he's not freaking out. Maybe it's the incredibly weak beer, but Dave doesn't really want to move.

His mind begins to wander, as he watches Brad Pitt and Edward Norton waltz around each other. What did he feel, exactly? Sure, Blaine might be weirdest kid he's ever met, and that's impressive considering that he also knows Hummel, but he's also the most original and honest person he's ever met. He was the real deal. He was also kind of too crazy to be true.

Dave sighs. This shit made his head hurt.

"Tyler Durden."

Dave turns his head, and Blaine looks up at him. "You're kind of the Tyler Durden to my Jack."

Dave squints. There was something seriously wrong with that statement. "Funny, I was thinking the same thing. But opposite."

Blaine shakes his head. "I mean, it's not like that. It shouldn't be like that. Let's face it, you're more Brad Pitt-esque than I am. You've got abs."

Dave flushes, "You're the crazy one. You're also kind of amazing." Shit! Dave wants to bite his tongue in half. Really? Did he really fucking just say that?

Blaine's smile just grew wider. He pulls himself up to Dave's level and Dave stares right back, not backing down.

But Blaine places his mouth next to Dave's ear and breathes it out: "I am Jack's overwhelming sense of euphoria and his overworked hypothalamus."

Dave slowly leans back, away from Blaine, and looks at his face, searching for any sign of mocking or ridicule.

Blaine's not smiling. Blaine's not smiling, but his eyes are fucking mini supernovas, and that has to be the gayest analogy Dave's ever made up, but he's not too concerned as he captures Blaine's lips with his own and sighs into it, feeling Blaine respond to it just as enthusiastically.

(Sometime a little while later, when they've separated so they could watch the rest of the movie, they've laced their hands together. Just to make sure they were both real.

Never can be too careful.)

End.

Thank you for reading! If it interests you, I currently have a project over at tumblr where I write daily short Karofsky-centered mini-fics under the name wildthorns. If you'd like to read up, I welcome you to check it out! Thanks! :)


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